


Stable Hands

by Synekdokee



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Blood, Gen, attempts at action, some violence, woobie michael
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-01 16:34:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/pseuds/Synekdokee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He watched Trevor as they waited in silence. A nervous Trevor always made the hair on Michael’s neck stand on end. It was one of the rare instances when Trevor was voluntarily quiet and subdued. It was made worse by the fact that loathe as Michael was to admit it, he trusted Trevor’s gut more than he did his own. Trevor’s paranoia was rarely misplaced, and right now it was sparking Michael’s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

”I’m done playing a gang-banger,” Franklin had sworn.

“I’m just doing a favour for Lamar,” he’d said.

“You two have more influence over people like this.”

And that was how they’d ended up in an abandoned warehouse, waiting for their contact to show up. Michael was perched on a rickety desk, jerking his foot impatiently while Trevor paced, a venomous look on his face.

“They’re late. I have a bad feeling about this,” Trevor said, taking a switchblade from his pocked and starting to twirl it around.

“Will you calm the fuck down? Your edginess is infectious.” Michael’s fingers itched for something to play with.

“Besides, what are you so fucking cagey about, shouldn’t you have experience with this sort of shit. I’m the one who hasn’t done a drug run in over ten years.”

“I never made a habit of taking jobs from second hand sources. And that’s why I’m still _alive_.” Trevor stopped, scratching at an invisible itch on his knuckles. “I don’t like this.”

Michael nodded, lips pursed. As much as he hated it, he agreed with Trevor. You didn’t show up late for a switch.

He watched Trevor as they waited in silence. A nervous Trevor always made the hair on Michael’s neck stand on end. It was one of the rare instances when Trevor was voluntarily quiet and subdued. Usually a man who commanded the space he was in, Trevor became contained, as though conserving energy for an attack. It was made worse by the fact that loathe as Michael was to admit it, he trusted Trevor’s gut more than he did his own. Trevor’s paranoia was rarely misplaced, and right now it was sparking Michael’s.

Michael kicked his heel against the desk hard, the loud bang making Trevor jerk around, his face murderous.

“You need to chill the fuck out,” Michael grinned.

Trevor opened his mouth, most likely to tear Michael a new one, when the doors to the warehouse slammed open. Six men with scarves wrapped around the lower halves of their faces approached them, armed but relaxed. Michael moved his hand to his own pistol, not even trying to be subtle. Trevor picked up the shotgun lying on the desk, aiming it down.

“You’re late,” Michael said, hoping he sounded more unimpressed than suspicious.

One of the men put his hand up in mock apology. “We ran into some trouble on the way. No need to get yourself all worked up.”

“Less bullshit, more business,” Trevor interrupted sharply. An outsider might not have noticed, but Michael could read the apprehension in Trevor’s stance, his whole body screaming “get the fuck out of here!”

“You got the money?” The man motioned at one of the others carrying a large bag to step forward.

Michael nodded, nudging the duffel bag away from behind the desk with his foot. “Show us the merchandise first.”

He glanced at Trevor, motioning at him to grab the duffel. Trevor picked it up and stepped close, chest angled away from their company.

“Like in Fergo,” Trevor murmured, and Michael suppressed the chill travelling down his spine at the memory. He gave a minute nod of acknowledgement and thumbed his safety off with a move hidden by Trevor’s bulk. He forced himself to relax as he watched Trevor carry the bag towards the men, the air heavy with tension.

Trevor had seen it coming, and Michael trusted his warnings, but he was still unprepared for the warning shout, for Trevor throwing the bag backwards at Michael while bringing up his shotgun, firing the closest gang-banger’s head clean off.

 _Like in Fergo,_ Michael thought as he snagged the bag, ducking behind the desk to cover Trevor. The men dispersed, two towards where Trevor had finally found cover, three after Michael. The wooden desk wouldn’t protect him for long, and he couldn’t rely on Trevor for back up now.

In Fergo, they had made a clear plan to split up and take care of their own targets separately and meet up at the hide-out. Trevor hadn’t been only referring to an ambush, it had been a reminder of that plan.

Counting shots, Michael waited, and braced himself. He jumped up, fired one precise shot that managed to drop one of the men, and sprinted into the corridor on the left. He could hear shouts, and the sounds of shotgun blasts, and resisted the urge to double back for Trevor. It was instinct, born out of the countless times they’d had each other’s backs. Despite the past and the plan, it felt wrong to run away from Trevor in the middle of a firefight.

Gritting his teeth, Michael pushed himself forward, turning a sharp corner and pressing himself against the wall, waiting, gun held steadily by two hands, the bag heavy on his shoulder. The corridor was silent, the only sound a faint whisper of wind blowing through the old building.

He took a quick glimpse around the corner, caught sight of his two chasers and fired a half-cocked aim, not stopping to wait to see if it had hit its target. He ran as fast as he could in the darkening corridors, trying to avoid the debris on the floor. He had no clue where he was running, and his only hope was that neither did his two tails.

He could hear the confused shouts of the men behind him, and glancing quickly over his shoulder he could see the bouncing yellow glow of a flashlight. He rounded another corner and ran into a hallway ending in a door. Cold sweat prickled at his neck as he rammed his shoulder against the locked door. Winded, shoulder aching, he weighed how much noise he was willing to make compared to buying time, and then aimed his pistol at the lock.

Praying to a god he hadn’t believed in in years that Trevor had fared better than him, Michael pulled the trigger.

\--

Trevor pulled up to halt by the trailer, out of his truck before it had even fully stopped. The lack of a black Undermacht on the shoulder of the road didn’t go unnoticed by him. He cursed as he took the porch stairs in two strides, bursting into the trailer panting. Franklin jumped up, taking in Trevor’s blood-stained clothes and skin, and the lack of Michael.

“What the fuck happened?” Franklin circled Trevor, looking alarmed as he watched Trevor pace the length of the trailer, shoulders bunched tight, hands clenched. “And where the fuck is Michael?”

Trevor gave out a howl, whirling around and slamming his fist into the stained wall. He didn’t seem to notice the blood dripping from his knuckles when he strode towards Franklin, his face twisted into a snarl. Franklin backed away, hands raised, shaking his head.

“You need to calm the fuck down man! Where fuck did you leave Michael?”

Trevor jerked to a halt. “I didn’t _leave_ him,” he screamed, body coiled tight. “We had a fucking plan, and if he didn’t cut it then _fuck him_ ,” he spat. “Survival of the fittest, baby!”

Franklin stared at him, slack-jawed. “Man, I know you don’t mean that. Not anymore.”

Trevor stared at him blankly, then blinked, a desperate whine escaping his throat as he hunched his body into himself before standing up, swaying slightly.

“He’s ran off with the money. Again.” He didn’t sound convinced even to his own ears.

“Fuck. Fucking fuck!” he screamed, grabbing Franklin and propelling him towards the door. “We gotta go find him,” he snarled, about to head into his bedroom to grab some heavier artillery when the trailer door banged open and Michael stumbled in.

“Fuck,” Michael said weakly, fumbling with blood-stained hands to drop the bag off his shoulder while Trevor and Franklin stared dumbly, frozen mid-action. The bag fell to the floor with a thud.

“I mean, _fuck_ ,” Michael said with emphasis before crashing to his knees, slumping against the kitchen cupboard, looking dazed.

Trevor hurried to him, kicking the bag into a corner and settling behind Michael, lifting him up from his slump, hissing when Michael gave a sharp groan at the motion. Franklin kneeled in front of them, helping Trevor support Michael while tugging his shirt up.

“Ah, fuck,” Franklin muttered, moving his arm so Trevor could see.

There was cut above Michael’s left hip, a wound that would’ve looked innocent if it hadn’t been for the steady stream of bright red blood flowing out in pulses.

Cursing, Trevor pressed his hand against the wound hard, ignoring Michael’s agonised cry at the pressure.

“Get him on the couch,” Trevor barked, and together they manoeuvred Michael up, half carrying him as he stumbled forwards, eyes squeezed shut against the pain.

“Keep the pressure on,” Tevor said, getting up and disappearing into the bathroom. Franklin sat quietly, biting his teeth together as he kept his palm on the wound. Michael was looking at him, face eerily calm but lucid. There was no accusation in Michael’s eyes, but Franklin still felt the hot flush of shame wash over him. It had been his job. He'd set it up.

Trevor was moving with furious efficiency, gathering supplies and towels, setting a large pot of water on the stove to boil. He kneeled next to Franklin, pushing his hands to the side and applying pressure himself.

“I need you to go get someone for me,” he said gruffly, eyes glued to his now blood-soaked hands. “Two streets down on the right, ugly-ass yellow trailer. Ask for Emerson. Say I’m cashing in on that favour.”

Franklin was up and moving before Trevor was finished talking. He was halfway out the door when Trevor shouted at him, making him pause with his grip on the handle.

Trevor looked at him, and the look in his eyes sent a chill down Franklin’s spine.

“Tell her,” Trevor said, voice low, “if she doesn’t come, I still have that email. She'll understand.”

Franklin nodded and ran out, vaulting himself over the porch railing.


	2. Chapter 2

Franklin gone, Trevor concentrated on Michael. He’d had first aid training in the army, but none of it was much help when you couldn’t see the possible internal damage. Trevor had always been good at winging things, but he’d never been a fan of flying blind.

He lifted the towel off the wound, wiping it as much as he could to see the shape of it. The cut was a few inches wide, and it looked clean. If Michael was lucky, his internal organs had slipped around the blade. _If_ he was lucky.

And if the knife had been straight.

“Mikey, what kind of a knife did they stick in you?”

Michael gave him a bleary look. “Didn’t exactly stop to look.”

Trevor growled in frustration. “I don’t need details, just tell me if the blade was serrated.”

“Oh. No, no it was straight. Uh.”

“Okay good,” Trevor said, not really sure if he was reassuring himself or Michael. “That’s good.” He reapplied the towel.

“So what the fuck happened?”

Michael closed his eyes briefly, then gave Trevor a lopsided smile. “The kid brought a knife to a gunfight.”

Trevor shook his head, gritting his teeth. “How the fuck did he get so close? You should be ashamed of yourself, man.”

“Pistol jammed. He’d run out of shots by then. Spraying them like crazy anyway.” Michael gestured weakly with his arm. “Pulled out a knife. Tried to take him down with my bare hands but you should know, you keep saying I’m getting on a bit.”

“Getting on nothing, prime of your life, pork-chop,” Trevor growled.

“Stuck me like a pig, I tell ya. Hurt like a sonovabitch.”

Trevor glanced up at Michael’s face, somewhat worried about the slightly delirious edge to Michael’s speech.

“What happened after he knifed you?”

“Oh. Ahh. I guess no one told him jams aren’t always permanent. My hand was kinda occupied so I tapped the pistol against the wall. And then I blew his brains out, ha.”

Trevor huffed out a laugh. “Shoulda warned them not to mess with an armed Townley, eh?”

“Hell yeah,” Michael groaned. “So I got out of there. Didn’t really start to feel it until in the car.” Trevor was silent for a while, until he had to glance away from where he was putting pressure to make sure Michael was still conscious.

“Funny, how the human body works, ain’t it?” Michael said, sounding contemplative.

“Right.” Trevor glanced at the clock on the wall, trying to estimate how long until Franklin got back. There wasn’t much he could do until Emerson arrived, except to try to stem the bleeding. He looked at Michael’s shirt and undershirt, estimating the amount of blood in them. Michael was right though. The human body worked in amazing ways. The things they’d taught Trevor in the army, before that had got shot down as well. The contracting effect of adrenaline on veins, how you might only start bleeding out after your brain stops telling you to fight and run. Michael had made it to the trailer on his own two legs.

“I’d sew you shut,” Trevor said, switching the bloodied towel for a new one. “But that might not be wise if your guts are sliced up.”

“Great.”

“You feeling okay?”

Michael breathed shallowly, and his skin was clammy and grey. His eyes were open, but there was a glazed look to them, like he had trouble focusing.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Been better. Been worse.” Michael groaned, eyes squeezed shut. “Actually, that’s a lie. I’ve never felt worse,” he wheezed out.

“I got stabbed once,” Trevor said conversationally. “But it was straight into a muscle. Took care of it myself.”

Michael gave him a weak, dirty look. “Are you trying to one-up me on stab wounds?”

Trevor barked out a laugh. “Just making small talk, shit head.”

Michael studied him, gaze so calm and steady that Trevor had to look away.

“You tryin’ to comfort me?” Michael’s voice was calm and quiet.

“Don’t want you getting all hysterical on me,” Trevor grunted, staring hard at his hands.

They were silent for a while, Michael concentrating on breathing, Trevor on making sure he kept doing it. The bleeding was clearly slowing down, which Trevor hoped was a sign that Michael’s gut was all in one piece.

He stared at his hands, sticky with blood.

“You’ve never bled on me before.” He didn’t mean to sound surprised.

“How long we ran together? 15 years? I’m sure I must’ve.”

“Nosebleeds after bar fights don’t count.”

“Aren’t you a fucking comedian,” Michael said, but there was no bite in his voice.

“I got shot twice. Bled all over you.” For some reason that was a comforting thought. “Didn’t die on you though.”

“Yeah,” Michael breathed. “You didn’t.”

Trevor glanced up sharply, a spark of fear burning in his gut. “You’re not gonna die, and if you’re trying to garner some pity points from me, I swear I will rip your arm off and ram it so deep up your ass you’ll be able to scratch your ear from the inside.”

Michael huffed out a weak laugh. “Yeah. Shit. I hear ya, buddy.”

Trevor looked at him. “You do look like crap.”

“Yeah.”

They waited in silence. Trevor kept checking Michael’s pulse, finding it even, if a little weak, every time.

“Hey..”

Trevor looked up at Michael, meeting his eye. He looked serious, and a little scared.

“I’m real sorry, T,” Michael said, and something in Trevor’s gut railed against him.

“Don’t even go there, dipshit,” he snarled, pressing firmly on Michael’s abdomen. “You’re not dying, and I sure as hell ain’t offering you fucking absolution.”

Michael sighed. “Yeah, I know. I’m not looking for that. Just wanted to say it.”

“Well, don’t.”

Michael fell silent again. Trevor felt itchy all over, wanting to do something and hating the helplessness. He wanted to go out and hunt down the people who set them up. He wasn’t built for fucking nursing. What the fuck was taking Emerson so long?

He was about to start wrapping a pressure bind around Michael so he could go after Franklin when the door opened and a tall, spindly woman rushed in, hurrying towards the couch.

“About fucking time,” Trevor growled, moving aside to let Emerson look at the wound.

“Had to gather my things,” Emerson said sharply, pulling on a pair of latex gloves and pulling the towel away. She turned to speak to Michael.

“How are you feeling?”

“Uh. A little nauseous. Hard to concentrate.” Michael lifted his right arm, giving a shaky, dismissive wave.

Emerson nodded and started to dig around in her bag. She pulled out two items sealed in paper, peeling them to reveal something that resembled pliers, and a sound with a blunt tip. She inhaled deep.

“This will hurt, and I’m out of anaesthetics. I prefer my patients sober, so we’re not getting you drunk or high.” She glared at Trevor. “Go wash your hands – properly! And then come help pin down his shoulders,” she ordered. “Franklin, hold his legs, and hold this over the wound.” She gave Franklin a pen-light with a bright white light. Trevor returned to the sofa, hands on Michael’s broad shoulders.

“I ain’t no lightweight,” Michael said, slurring a little. “I’ve been in pain before.”

“Good,” Emerson said, and then wedged the spreader inside the wound, opening it carefully before slipping the sound through the wound slowly. Franklin swallowed audibly, keeping the light aimed into the now open cut, his weight on Michael’s legs loose as he realized there’d be no struggling.

Michael went breathless beneath Trevor, eyes slipping closed. Trevor could see him grind down on his teeth, his nostrils flared in pain. He didn’t trash, didn’t make a sound, but his body was tense under the pressure of Trevor’s hands.

Emerson moved her stick back and forth, gently probing the wound. Trevor grimaced when he saw how deep the stick sunk in.

Finally, when Michael’s face was shiny with sweat, his lower lip bitten bloody, Emerson gently eased the instruments out and threw them on a towel.

“I don’t detect any serious cavities, and your stomach doesn’t seem distended from internal bleeding, so if you’re lucky, you have a torn mesentery at most. They can bleed a lot at first, but judging by the stemmed flow, it’s already slowing down.”

Trevor shook his head. “Lucky isn’t good enough. You better be sure.”

Emerson shot him a hard look. “The only way to know for sure is to have an ultrasound. Unless you’re willing to take him to a hospital, and I’m guessing you’re not, lucky is the closest I can get.”

Trevor bit down on the curse on the tip of his tongue.

“So what do we do now,” Franklin asked, glancing at Michael worriedly.

“The tear is a few hours old, and it doesn’t look like it’s in danger to spread. We disinfect the wound, suture it shut, and put him on a saline drip to help him cope with the blood loss.” She shot Trevor a lopsided smirk. “Unless you have blood-bags lying around.”

“Jesus,” Michael croaked. Trevor kneaded his shoulders firmly.

“You’ll be fine Mike,” Trevor said mock-cheerfully. “Maybe that hole in your gut will help you lose some weight.”

“Ha fucking ha,” Michael hissed, and then let out a soft, painful groan.

Emerson stood up and went to the kitchen counter to change her gloves and discard the old ones. She came back with a bottle of disinfectant, pads of gauze, and supplies for sewing Michael up.

Michael watched suspiciously as she settled down on the floor again. She hesitated, and looked at Trevor.

“If you have anything to take the edge off, you can give it to him now that I know his bowels aren’t shredded.”

Trevor grumbled and went into the bedroom, returning shortly with a bag of pills. He fished out a few, considered, and picked out two more, and handed them to Michael who hesitated to take them.

“Do I even want to know?”

Trevor yanked his palm back, raising a concerned eyebrow. “You ain’t got any allergies, do you,” he said seriously. Michael glared at him weakly, and opened his mouth, but Emerson got there before him.

“If you two are finished with your marriage counselling, I’d like to stop the bleeding now so I can go back home and enjoy my shitty evening off!”

Trevor glared at her and dumped the pills in Michael’s palm, grabbing him a glass of water to help wash the drugs down.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Franklin asked, eyeing the pills skeptically. Michael shrugged and threw the drugs back, slurping a little water ease the way.

It didn’t take long for the drugs to take effect, blood-loss enabling the reaction. Trevor watched, half-amused, half worried as Michael’s cheeks grew flushed, his breathing evening out and pupils dilating. He knew Michael hadn’t touched drugs since Ludendorff, didn’t need to be told that to know he’d avoided those kinds of pitfalls since getting out. The last thing they needed now was Michael having an overdose and flipping out.

“Fuck, T,” Michael groaned, eyes slipping closed.

“He’s fine,” Trevor drawled. Emerson shrugged and started applying the disinfectant on the wound and around the surrounding skin, wiping it carefully. Satisfied that the wound was clean enough, she took her needle and thread and set to work.

“You gotta hold still now, Michael,” she said gently, waiting for Michael to nod in understanding. Then, with deft fingers, she pushed the needle in, drawing a hiss from Michael.

To Emerson’s credit, she worked fast, neat little sutures that quickly pulled the hole in Michael’s belly closed. Trevor felt some of the tension drain from his body at the sight. He could sew wounds, but not terribly well, and he preferred not having to do it.

Soon Emerson was cutting the thread and applying tape and gauze over the wound. Satisfied with her work, she put her things back in her bag and rose to leave. She paused over the counter, pulling out notebook of some sort and scribbling something on it. There was a tearing sound and she handed the slip of paper to Trevor.

“Painkillers. Get them as soon as the pharmacy opens. I’ll leave you the disinfectant and some dressing, gauze. You know how to treat a wound, make sure it stays clean and dry.”

“I’ll remove the stitches myself,” Trevor said gruffly, studying the prescription slip.

“That’s it, right?” Emerson said, looking steadily at Trevor. “You got your favour. You’ll leave me alone now.”

“I’m a man of my word,” Trevor stated seriously.

“Lies,” Michael mumbled from the sofa. Emerson gave him a toothy smile.

“I’m not stupid, Trevor,” she said, voice pitched low. “I’m pretty sure I know who your friend there is.”

Trevor tensed, hands curling into fists. He took a step towards Emerson. “Don’t think I wouldn’t hit a woman,” he hissed.

“Not even for a second,” she said coldly. “So why don’t we settle on a truce, hmm? I never saw a dead man walking and you… you’ll keep your trap shut on your end.”

Trevor growled, muscles coiled tight. Then he took a step back and shook his fist at her.

“Get the fuck out of my trailer, you quack.”

Emerson grinned, picked her bag up and went to the door. “Pleasure doing business with you, Trevor,” she said, disappearing out the door.

Trevor resisted the urge to barge after her, instead turning to Franklin who was perched on the sofa next to Michael.

“I think he passed out,” Franklin said, shaking Michael’s leg.

Trevor waved his hand. “Let him sleep. We’ll see how he works off the drugs…”

Franklin nodded, and hesitated.

“I’ll go see Lamar-“

“You learned a valuable lesson today,” Trevor snapped. Then he ran his palm over his face, ruffling his thinning hair. “I guess me and Mikey re-learned it, too.”

“I’m sorry, man. It shouldn’t have-“

“No, it fucking shouldn’t.” Trevor gave him a hard look. “Now you know better. You can cry your heart out at Michael when he’s lucid, but all I care about is you knowing that if you land me in shit like this ever again, there won’t be even a wet spot left of you.”

Franklin nodded, feeling chastised. He glanced at Michael, taking in his sickly skin and blood-stained clothes.

“Should I stay?” he asked, looking at Trevor uncertainly. Trevor sighed, heading to the fridge, grabbing himself a beer.

“Go home, bro.  There’s not enough room here, and you sure as hell can’t be useful anymore. I’ll call you when he’s back amongst the living.”

Part of Franklin wanted to argue, the thought of leaving Michael in that state making him uneasy, but he could tell he was treading thin ice with Trevor as it was. He got up and made his way to the door.

”Make sure he doesn’t croak,” Franklin said, stepping out into the cool evening.

Trevor chuckled softly and settled down on a chair next to Michael, nursing his beer.

”You stupid fucking shit,” he said quietly, and reached over to drape a moth-eaten blanket over Michael’s still form.


End file.
